


I need some meaning I can memorise

by el_em_en_oh_pee



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crush, Established Relationship, Fic Exchange, M/M, Multi, Pining, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:53:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el_em_en_oh_pee/pseuds/el_em_en_oh_pee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's potentially embarrassing, but Harry is pretty sure that he's in love with the guy who works in the cubicle next to his. Zayn is just... well. There's a good chance that he's perfect. He's gorgeous and smart and funny.</p><p>And he has a boyfriend.</p><p>And that's fine in theory - Harry doesn't plan on <i>acting</i> on his crush - but then he finds himself stuck in a car with the two of them, and pretending like Louis doesn't exist gets a lot harder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I need some meaning I can memorise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snuffleslove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuffleslove/gifts).



> thanks to the usual culprits for holding my hand through this and trying to reassure me that my first forays into zourry were successful, [cait](http://berrypayne.tumblr.com) and [bee](http://boybandhugs.tumblr.com).
> 
> this fic takes a lot of liberties with reality, including geographical distances, the structure of the publishing industry and the bbc, and the nature of relationships between boyband members. this is a work of _fiction_.
> 
> snuffleslove, i hope you like it!!

The car breaks down.

Of _course_ the car breaks down. There's no reason for the car to _not_ break down; Harry's really aiming for this to be the worst day of his life and the car breaking down just totally cements it as such.

They're in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from the nearest town.

Perfect.

+++

It's potentially embarrassing, but Harry is pretty sure that he's in love with the guy who works in the cubicle next to his. Zayn is just... well. There's a good chance that he's perfect.

It's not just that the guy is totally gorgeous, which he is – his cheekbones alone make Harry swoon, but then he has to go and have this carefully-molded quiff that Harry just wants to run his hands through and mess up, and these beautiful smouldering eyes eyes with the longest lashes Harry has ever seen in his _life_ , and a body that just looks like it would fit really well against Harry's own. No, Zayn has to go and be smart and funny and quiet and _dorky_ , too.

They work at this up-and-coming publishing house, Factor. Zayn's official work lies with the first round of editing, polishing plot and the like, but Harry knows that he also does some cover illustrations too.

They all do a bit of dabbling outside of their realm of focus at Factor, though. It's not standard, but the head of the company likes flexible employees. Harry came in as a copy-editor but he finds himself working more and more with promotion, too, especially since Factor is already transitioning from print-exclusive to a combination of print and electronic work. So the fact that Zayn helps make the books better and pretties them up on the outside shouldn't impress him as much as it does.

But oh, it does.

They talk regularly, of course - it isn't like Harry is just admiring the guy from afar. They're the only two in this part of the room, separated from everyone else by an inexplicable line of potted palms that the head of the company says really improve the feng shui of the workspace. Harry mostly thinks they get in the way, since they're literally in the middle of the room taking up space, and are positioned in a way that just perfectly ensures that he trips over them pretty much every time he walks past them, but whenever it comes up, Zayn smiles his crinkle-eyed little smile at Harry over their cubicle wall and says, "If they weren't there we wouldn't be able to get away with talking so much."

That shuts Harry up pretty damn fast.

In general, though, the talking does more harm than good, because it just means that Harry _knows_ that Zayn's read what feels like at least half the books ever written, that he has a working knowledge of comics and an obsession with finding and buying anything he can from the silver age (whatever that means; Harry doesn't know much about comics, himself, but on Zayn it's impossibly cute), that he has lots of sisters who still live up north and a good relationship with his parents and an Irish best friend on the Manchester City reserves and a boyfriend who is a CBBC presenter.

Harry tries his best to ignore that last part, because he doesn't want his harmless crush marred by any sort of _reality_. Not when Zayn's button-down shirts are sometimes sheer enough that Harry can see the dark outline of tattoos all up his arm, beyond the tiny spikes of ink that peep out of the end of his sleeve on the rare occasion that he reaches to adjust one of his photographs while Harry is leaning against the entrance to his cubicle, mug of tea in hand, chatting with him about their boss.

The thing is, Harry isn't stupid. He knows that he's fit and cute and charming and can pull girls and, occasionally, boys at clubs on weekend nights. So it logically follows that he's obviously a bit of a catch himself. But he knows he doesn't stand a chance with Zayn, and doesn't expect to. He's long since resigned himself to admiring – besottedly, unwaveringly admiring – Zayn silently from across the partition between their cubicles.

That doesn't stop the sex dreams, though. Dreams of Zayn on his knees in front of Harry, Harry's hand fisting in his quiff and pulling his head back slightly so his dick can push further in, Zayn's hands fluttering around Harry's thighs to steady himself. Of Zayn holding Harry's hands down above his head with one hand, an eyebrow quirked as he pistons his fingers, slippery with lube, into Harry's hole. Of kissing Zayn so hard and so long that their lips bruise, Harry’s hands locked on Zayn’s narrow hips; Zayns wrapped firmly around Harry’s waist.

Mornings after Harry has these dreams are always really awkward, initially, because every time Zayn pokes his head around the corner and asks if he can borrow Harry's tippex or some of Harry's post-its, images of Zayn's naked cock stiff and curved against his stomach, with Harry's hand wrapped snug around it, flash through his mind and his mouth goes dry and he's even slower to respond than usual.

It's the morning after a particularly steamy dream, one about running into Zayn in an empty bookstore and pinning him against the corner between Sci Fi/Fantasy Anthologies and Poetry Anthologies, slotting a leg between Zayn's thighs and gripping his hips tight enough to bruise, rutting against him through the stiff denim of their jeans until his cock is rubbed raw from the friction of the cloth and coming is almost as much pain as it is pleasure, that Zayn drags his wheeled chair around the corner of his cubicle and sits down, straddling it back-to-front and leaning forward towards Harry.

"So," he says. "What are your Christmas plans?"

Harry's heart skips a beat, which is embarrassing. Zayn is a pretty good workplace friend. Harry is pretty sure he's not reading too much into the situation when he thinks that. They get on well and talk a lot and sometimes do lunch together when they finish up with their morning projects at the same time. It hasn't really expanded out past that, beyond drinks after work once or twice, usually in a group with three or four other people, but... workplace friends feels like a good description of their relationship.

He has no reason to believe that Zayn is about to move them past that, but he's never specifically asked about Harry's plans before, either.

"Taking the train back north this weekend," Harry says, fiddling with the clip on his pen. "Going to meet my sister's boyfriend, spend some time with family, hopefully hang out with my best mate from uni if he gets some time off. You know." He pauses, studying Zayn, whose expression is mostly unreadable. "You?" He pauses again, concentrates on modulating his voice so that no trace of bitterness can come through, and says, carefully, "Any fun trips planned with your boyfriend?"

Something like a frown flashes across Zayn's face, then disappears. Harry tries not to let hope surge through him. That would be gross and rude and uncomfortable. "Nah, going to see family and stuff, mostly," he says.

"That should be nice," Harry says, dizzy with the potential implications of that brief frown. "How long has it been?"

"Months," Zayn says, rolling his eyes. "They really keep us on task here, don't they?"

"You can say that again," Harry agrees, because he hasn't had any time off since August.

"Yeah," says Zayn. "So anyway, did you buy your ticket yet?"

Harry cringes. He _knew_ he was forgetting something. "It's on my to-do list."

"Okay, great," Zayn says, leaning even further forward into the back of his chair. The front two wheels come off the ground, incrementally. "Was wondering if you'd like to ride up with me, since we're from the same general area and all."

Harry's heart drops into his stomach and then jumps right up into his throat. He’s positively queasy with excitement. As evenly as he can manage, he says, "That would be great, cheers."

"Great," Zayn says, flashing a beautiful smile in Harry's direction. "I'll let Louis know we've got another passenger."

And then he's gone, wheeling back into his own cubicle before the words even have a chance to register with Harry. When they do, though, it's all he can do to keep from shouting _what_ out to the entire office.

+++

Harry supposes that he shouldn't resent Zayn's boyfriend for being a tv presenter, since his own best mate is proper famous in his own right, but he does.

"I'm sure I don't hold a candle to him," he tells Liam that night. Liam is in town for just two days. Harry misses him all the time when he's off touring and doing promotions for his and Cher's album and in interviews constantly. He feels vaguely as if he should make the most of Liam actually being with him _in the flesh_ and do something besides get upset over how Zayn will probably never ever love him, but like, it's hard.

"Haz, you know you're a great catch," Liam says, earnestly. "I could ask any person you've dated and come away with references, probably."

"I'm not a CBBC presenter," Harry points out, sullenly. "I'm just a boring copyeditor."

"So's Zayn," Liam says, and Harry has to bite his tongue to keep from correcting him and giving him a very detailed rundown of Zayn's actual job description, which is decidedly _not_ copyediting.

He groans, throwing himself back against the couch. "What am I even going on about, Liam? I don't want to be a _homewrecker_."

"Good," Liam says, placid. "You'll be fine; it's just a short drive home."

"Sure that Cher Your Payne can't let me hitch a ride on the tour bus? I know you’re going to be in town for Christmas."

Liam splutters, even as he shakes his head no. "I thought you'd've forgotten that I initially wanted that to be our name."

"How could I forget something so hideously dreadful?" Harry asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Giving his moderately well-known pop star best friend lessons in humility always cheers him up, at least a little bit. Never mind that Liam is somehow one of the most humble people Harry knows, despite his meteoric rise in popularity. It's probably the only way he manages successfully existing in a band with his fiancé.

"Shove off," Liam says, but he's smiling, too. A beat, and then he goes earnest again. "Do you need to practise conversation? For when you're in the car with him?"

"Nah," Harry says. "I guess I can survive. I'll bring my ipod and a sleep mask or something so that I don't have to look at them."

"That's the spirit," Liam says, patting Harry on the knee.

"It's not a bad idea," Harry says. "Then I never have to find out what Louis Tomlinson looks like."

Liam rolls his eyes. "You say that like you didn't confess to me that you spent a full twelve hours in bed watching CBBC programming several months ago just to find out what you were dealing with."

"I don't like you at all," Harry says. "Why are we friends again?"

Liam makes this little clucking noise with his tongue and tugs Harry into a cuddle and oh, right. That's why.

+++

Harry hates Louis.

More specifically, Harry likes Louis immediately. The morning that they leave, Louis pulls up in front of Harry's tiny little rented house in an old but obviously well-cared-after car and Zayn climbs out of the passenger seat to help Harry fit his bag in the little boot. Louis steps out, too, to officially meet Harry.

"This your co-worker, then?" he asks Zayn, an unreadable expression on his face. His eyebrows are stupendous and are presently swooping high up on his face. Harry would guess surprise, but he doesn't know Louis well enough to be certain. "He's well fit."

Harry freezes as Zayn lifts one of his shoulders in a shrug and nods and says "I guess so," because _what_? _What_? He feels this flush of warmth, of pleasure, because it's everything he's wanted to hear for so long – at least, it is to an extent – and then a hot flash of shame that he can't quite place.

"I'm Harry," he says, taking Louis's hand, which is firm and dry and so tiny in Harry's own.

Not only does Louis get his boyfriend Zayn to comment on Harry's appearance (and Harry keeps thinking the word at himself loudly, lest he possibly forget: _boyfriend. Boyfriend. Zayn has a boyfriend. Louis is Zayn's boyfriend_ ), but he proves to be funny and charming, too. He's obviously pretty, even more so in person than on the telly, his hair a lovely little mess and his eyes so clear and blue and the thin little curve of his lips a beautiful counterpoint to the swell of his hips and the dip of his waist. He's slightly shorter than Zayn, and quite a bit shorter than Harry himself. 

He's not as stunningly beautiful as Zayn is, because Zayn was crafted from exquisite marble by the gods themselves and basically no one in the world can come close to eclipsing that. Louis's is a more accessible beauty. Harry is pretty certain he wouldn't be able to handle it if Louis were as gorgeous as Zayn, though. He's already having some difficulty with the two of them and how great they look stood next to each other and how they're already the prettiest couple he knows and how large and clumsy he feels next to the two of them.

The thing is, though (Harry has to remind himself again), that Louis is dating Zayn. Harry hates him with every fibre of his being for that, and for being so funny and cute and lovely and charming and likable and _with Zayn_.

Harry was raised well (and Liam had reminded him that Zayn was trying to do him a favour, not ruin his life), so he brings a bag of sweet orange-cranberry scones he baked the night before with him in the car and offers them to Louis and Zayn as a thank-you sort of breakfast snack for the road. Duty effectively done, he sets in to scroll through stuff on his phone for the entirety of the drive and studiously ignore the way that Zayn and Louis are holding hands over the emergency brake up in the front of the car.

It doesn't go as planned, though. "Harry," Louis says, as they navigate their way to the motorway. "Tell me about yourself."

"Like what?" Harry asks, glancing up from his phone to see Louis's looking at him through the rearview mirror, eyebrows perked in an interested sort of way.

"Like I know what you do for a living, obviously," Louis says. "But what do you do to _live_?"

"Tweet nasty things at Liam Payne," Harry says, because it's _true_ , sort of. He often tweets Liam the link to dictionary.com and reminders of the few times that Harry's beat Liam in any sort of physical game or of the times that Liam did silly things at uni or spelling corrections. It's his way of keeping Liam grounded; Liam mostly just laughs and rolls his eyes about it.

But Louis's eyes have gone wide with shock, and it's only Zayn saying "Look out, you're merging," that probably keeps him from twisting around in his seat to look at Harry.

"You do _what_?"

Harry blinks, then realises what it must sound like, what he's said. "Oh," he says. "He's my best mate, it's okay."

It's Zayn's turn to look back. He shifts in his seat until he can look straight at Harry. Harry dies a little inside at the way that Zayn's lovely deep eyes sort of just... peer right through him. "Didn't realise that your best mate Liam was _Liam Payne_ of The Oath," he says.

Harry shifts in his seat, a little uncomfortably warm from Zayn's heavy gaze. "You're dating a CBBC presenter and your best mate is a footballer," he says, because it's not like Zayn doesn't have associations with moderately famous people, too.

"The thing you need to realise," Louis interjects, voice rich with amusement, "is that Zayn's got a bit of a massive thing for Liam Payne."

Well. That's entirely unfair. Harry takes his phone out again and sends a quick text to Liam, _Fml I hate you zayn fancies you and its just his boyfriend who thinks I'm fit_. "Oh," he says.

"It's cute," Louis continues, and he reaches over and squeezes Zayn's knee. “Liam’s on Zayn’s free pass list.” 

Harry wants to be sick all over the inside of Louis's car. "Anyway," he says, studiously ignoring this new fact about his crush’s feelings about his best friend. "I bake a bit and I read a bit and I go out with friends on weekends and stuff. You know, the usual."

"I bet you terrorise the club scene," Louis says, an unreadable expression on his face as he glances at Harry through the rearview yet again. "You heartbreaker."

And like – Zayn is levelling some kind of unreadable glare in Louis's direction, a far as Harry can tell from where he's sat in the backseat, and Louis is smirking a little, and Harry just isn't sure what's going on here anymore but he knows he doesn't like it one bit. Louis doesn't even _know_ him, this is _ridiculous_.

So he does the only thing he can: shrug, maybe a little coyly, and say, “Mmmm, it’s possible.”

+++

They stop for lunch at some little village just before the halfway point and end up eating at a chip shop where the grease from their food soaks deliciously through the wrappings before they can even start to eat it.

Zayn pulls Harry aside in the loo and, shoving a hand through the short hairs at the back of his head, says, "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Harry asks, warmth suffusing through him and making him light and happy at just the thought that Zayn would think to apologise to Harry, for whatever it is, and at the way that Zayn's hand is clasped loosely around Harry's wrist to keep him from leaving the bathroom and heading out into the front of the shop. Zayn's hand is warm and slightly damp from where he was washing it earlier and the press of his fingers makes Harry want to swoon.

"Louis can come on a little strong at first," Zayn says, looking up at Harry, direct in his eyes. Harry feels unsteady on his feet. "It's part of what makes him so good as a children's television presenter but it can be a little... off-putting for new people."

 _Is there trouble in paradise?_ Harry thinks, and then hates himself for it, because he wants Zayn so, so badly and he's so massively in love with him and Zayn just – he's like this bright light and Harry is just like a moth who wants to be around it all the time, soaking up his beauty and brilliance and just existing in the same space as it (and Harry is going to have to stop reading the unsolicited book submissions from people who want to get published but don't want to find an agent in his down time at work, because that was a truly heinous metaphor), but he doesn't want to be any kind of homewrecker. Anyway, he's aware that Zayn owes him nothing more than friendship and works really hard on not expecting more from him.

And if he is entirely honest with himself, divorcing Louis from the guy who has managed to nab Zayn Malik and considering him on his own terms, Louis is right up Harry's street. "I like him," he says, and it's a lie because he hates Louis but it's also true because he _does_ like Louis quite a bit, as an individual person and all that. It still kills him a little bit to admit it, though, because however noble he tries to be about it, he's still painfully in love with Zayn. "He's funny."

Zayn's face softens into a bit of a smile and he lets go of Harry's wrist, just to tug him into a quick, tight side-hug. Harry's not entirely certain what's going on, but he's not protesting it at all.

But then they go back out into the open and Louis is sitting back in his seat, arm around the empty chair next to his, one leg crossed over the other, wide and relaxed. Harry is fleetingly impressed that such a small person is able to take up so much space, but the feeling dissolves into a thick burning resentment when Zayn leans in to whisper something in Louis's ear, mouth practically brushing against his cheek as he does so. Harry's resentment grows deeper when Zayn takes the seat and Louis tightens his arm around Zayn's shoulders, a tiny proud smile playing around his lips.

The thing is, Harry doesn't _like_ feeling like this. He's grudgingly impressed by everything Louis says and does, and the hot bitter swells of resentment and anger are just entirely uncharacteristic for him and not fun at _all_. He wants to be happy for Zayn and Louis, because they are, entirely literally, the hottest couple he's ever encountered and they seem to get on well enough. He's never particularly _enjoyed_ jealousy, is the thing, but he's entirely consumed by it now and try as he might, he can't really control it. His jaw is getting sore from how he's working it so hard whenever Louis tilts his head in towards Zayn's, or Zayn slips his fingers around the curve of Louis's waist, dipping them under his shirt briefly.

Basically, today sucks.

+++

Louis has the bright idea to go off the main roads once they're done with lunch.

"Won't that take longer?" Harry asks, as Louis finishes putting more petrol in the tank.

"Awww," Louis says. "Are you so eager to leave us, Harry? Are we bad company?"

"I guess not," Harry says, grudgingly, and is rewarded by Zayn smiling beautifully as Louis chuckles.

"We'll probably avoid holiday traffic better off the motorway," Zayn points out, so Harry looks up new directions on his phone and Louis starts off, following Harry's instructions all the way.

He doesn't entertain the possibility that the car might break down, which is of course why it does, on this tiny little road in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by cold, windswept fields.

 _Typical_ , he thinks, as he climbs out of the car to help Zayn and Louis look under the bonnet.

"Do you know anything about cars?" he asks, casually, after they've been staring at the engine in consternation for ten minutes.

"No," Zayn says, and Louis adds, "I'm hoping that if we look at it long enough it'll sort itself out."

"I'm quite good at fixing cars, myself," Harry says, and when the other two look up at him, eyebrows raised, he's forced to add, "When they're those plastic things kids operate with their walking feet; my sister used to break mine all the time."

"Helpful," Louis says, dryly. "Suppose I should phone Green Flag, then." He takes out his phone and walks off a few steps to make the call.

Zayn watches after him, worried. "I hope he doesn’t get too upset with himself over this," he tells Harry, quietly.

Harry blinks at him, buzzing at the way that Zayn's arm is brushing against his own. He tries very hard not to lean into the touch, to moderate success. "Is that a concern?"

"Yeah," Zayn says. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulls out his pack of Bright Leafs, and taps one out. "D'you mind?"

"Go ahead," Harry says. He’d known, on some level, that Zayn is a smoker – one of their first conversations at Factor, in fact, was about how Zayn would try and quit, but going outside for smoke breaks every couple of hours is a nice way to measure his time and maintain focus – but he's never seen it in action before. The sight of Zayn pulling the flame from his lighter into the cigarette, the curl of smoke at the end as it catches and burns, the way Zayn's throat and lips tighten with the inhale... well.

It's titillating, is what it is.

"Louis is really hard on himself," Zayn says, shadowing his eyes with his free hand and watching after his boyfriend. "Not that you'd ever guess it for looking at him."

"It's a car malfunction, those are nobody’s fault," Harry says, as if that should be obvious. He's feeling a bit funny inside, almost like he's a bit sorry for Louis, like he wants Louis to be okay about this. It's a weird feeling, especially as it's tied up with incredulity that someone could potentially fault themselves for a car malfunction. Unless, well. "Did he neglect to do some type of maintenance on it?"

"Dunno," Zayn says, hunching his shoulders forward. "I doubt it, it's like his baby."

Harry hums in response, watching Zayn watch Louis talk on the phone, just loud enough that the words float their way.

He startles when Zayn puts a hand on his arm, straightening up. "He's headed back," he says, taking one last drag on his cigarette and then leaning over to carefully stamp out the burning end and stick the rest of it in his front pocket. "We may have to do a bit of a calming-down."

Which, well. Harry's mind immediately goes to a dirty place, of Zayn on his knees in front of Louis, mouth pink and stretched around Louis's dick while Harry sneakily watches them from afar instead of watching out for oncoming traffic, but that is very improbably what Zayn actually meant, so he tries to push the thought from his mind.

"They should be here soon," Louis says, when he reaches them. His eyes are flashing in a new and interesting way, and he goes to curl up against Zayn's chest. Zayn looks at Harry over Louis's head, widens his eyes at him, stroking Louis's back and then jerking away, rubbing his collarbone.

"Thanks for that bite, babe," he says, but he kisses Louis's cheek. And then: "How soon?"

"Forty minutes," Louis says, now curling in on himself, and – yeah, now that Zayn's mentioned the way that Louis is, Harry can see a tightness around his eyes, the way he holds himself up so carefully. He glances around and then says, dramatically, "We'll probably die of frostbite before they get here."

"Isn't it like, nine degrees out?" Harry asks. It's practically balmy, especially for mid-December. He hardly even needs a jacket.

"As I said," Louis says. "It's only nine degrees above freezing, I'm afraid we won't last long enough to see our rescuers."

"We'll find a way to survive," Zayn says, lowly, and Harry feels hot at the words. He's not certain how Zayn intended them, but the way he said it, well. His mind is still in the dirty place, basically, and the way that Zayn is curling his hand around Louis's neck isn't helping one speck.

And then Zayn draws Louis into a kiss and Harry has to turn away because he's equal parts aroused and disgusted.

+++

They end up playing I Spy for about fifteen minutes, but there's not much to see beyond the car and the browning grass on the fields and the odd tree and bush in the distance and the occasional bird wheeling above, and then it devolves into a bunch of bad jokes and Zayn and Louis sharing a lot of stories, about how they met and how they almost didn't get together because they were both so wrapped up in themselves and their own lives and how it was really Zayn's best friend, Niall, who actually got them to sort themselves out at all.

It's a terrible conversation and Harry doesn't like it one bit.

They're huddled on a blanket from the back of Louis's car, spread out on the grassy strip beside the road, because no one wants to sit inside of a broken-down vehicle on a day when the sun is actually shining the way it is, despite the chill on the wind. Harry is stretched out across one side of the blanket, lying on his side, looking at Louis and Zayn because he can't quite look away, as much as it pains him to watch the way their fingers keep tangling together and the way the sun gilds them both so beautifully in so very different ways.

Somehow, Louis's other hand has found its way into Harry's hair, threaded through his curls, and he's scratching Harry's scalp lightly. Harry is pretty sure that he might die, from how conflicted he feels about the pleasant shivers running down his back at the touch and the knowledge that the person causing this sensation is someone he wants so badly to hate.

They're lapsed into a companionable silence of sorts, Louis's hand tangled firmly in Harry's hair, Harry's head somehow now resting on Louis's thigh, one of Zayn's hands on his leg. Zayn and Louis's other hands are still laced together, and they're leaning in towards each other in a way that would be completely adorable if it wasn't so awful to watch. It's when Zayn pushes himself up a little straighter and starts saying, "So Harry, we were thinking-" and Louis's hand tightens against Harry's head, so he's actually pulling at Harry's hair now, that they hear a car driving up.

It's the Green Flag people, so Louis disentangles his hand and gently moves Harry's head down to the blanket, jumping up to go talk to the person who has come to help them out.

"What were you thinking?" Harry asks Zayn, after watching Louis talk to the woman driving the truck for a moment. He glances at Zayn, observes the way Zayn's eyelashes flutter and dip as he looks down at Harry for a long moment, the way the corners of Zayn's mouth tighten, then quirk.

Harry can't be certain, but he could almost swear that when Zayn slides his hand further up his leg, from just above his knee to higher up on his thigh, it's deliberate. In any event, his breath catches. "Later," Zayn says, after a long pause, eyes flicking from Harry back up to Louis and the woman he's talking to. His hand hovers on Harry's leg for a long moment, and then he pulls it back, wipes it on his leg, and pushes himself up until he's standing. "Looks like something's happening, let's go," he says, and reaches down to help Harry up.

Harry memorises the feeling of Zayn's hand in his own as best he can, then helps Zayn fold up the blanket.

+++

So despite this very trip functioning as a way for Harry to avoid taking the train, he ends up on one anyway, squeezed with his suitcase under the table at his feet and his legs folded up close in front of him, Zayn sat directly across from him and Louis next to Zayn. Harry's got his hands folded in front of them, and if he leans forward to talk so that Zayn and Louis can hear him over the shouts of a family of small children four rows away, his knuckles almost accidentally brush against Zayn's.

"I expect Niall can drive me down to pick up my car from the shop when it's fixed," Louis had said, after they were towed for fifteen minutes to the nearest town and dropped the car off at its one mechanic. He hadn't said that he just wanted to get home, rather than wait for the car to be taken care of first. He hadn't needed to; it was implied, and then assumed when Zayn had nodded and looked up the directions to the nearest train station on his phone.

Harry is totally drained by the time the train pulls out of the station, from sitting on a bench outside waiting for it to arrive, disoriented by the feeling of someone's fingers resting lightly on his shoulder – he couldn't be sure whether they were Zayn's or Louis's, and didn't want to twist around to check, because the feeling was, quite honestly, nice, and he didn't want them to stop, in the likely event that whoever it was didn't realise what they were doing – too cold to nap like he really wanted to. In fact, he’s so drained that, despite the way his body is folded in an altogether uncomfortable manner into his little square of space on the train, as soon as it starts moving steadily, the sway of the car rocks him sleepier than ever.

"'m just gonna close my eyes for a moment," he mumbles at Zayn and Louis, and crosses his arms in front of himself and rests his head down on them.

When he wakes up from his nap, he's missed his stop.

He doesn't realise it at first, because he's still clinging to sleep, head still on his arms, a very noticeable damp spot on his right sleeve from where he must've drooled during his nap, thoughts muddled as he grows gradually aware of the vibrating him of Zayn's voice quietly yet insistently saying, "...work with him, Lou, it wouldn't-"

"Just make up your mind, Zayn," Louis says. Harry's coming more strongly into awareness now. He's pretty sure that Louis sounds impatient, but he's still half-dozing, so he can't be certain. "I've told you I'm definitely interested so the choice is literally all yours now."

"I want to," says Zayn. "but if he doesn't, then-"

"I think it's pretty obvious that he'd like to," Louis says, dryly.

Harry is very confused by this conversation, which feels an awful lot like something he's not supposed to overhear. Since he's never been very good at acting like he's asleep, despite years of failed attempts to get out of family meetings by pretending to doze off all the time as a teenager, and since he's getting further and further from being able to fall back asleep, he rolls his head to the side, cracking his neck, and then stretches up. "Morning," he says.

"Hey, sleepyhead," says Zayn. His smile is fond. "Nice nap?"

"I'm a bit stiff, really," Harry says, blithely. He stretches again, arms over his head, to work out all the kinks, and tells himself quite sternly that it's mad to think that Zayn's eyes are actually following his torso as he shakes off the last vestiges of his nap. "But rested."

"You were snoring something awful," Louis says, grinning at Harry. "But Zayn here wouldn't let me poke you till you shut up."

"Because I understand the importance of a good nap, Louis," Zayn says, rolling his eyes.

"I should say so," Louis says. "You certainly have enough of them."

Harry gets the distinct impression that he's just been thrust into the middle of a very familiar discussion, one they've had over and over again, that they fall back in on comfortably every so often. It's a strange sensation, if he's honest, like he's intruding on a really personal moment. "I appreciate the thought," he says, because he just really can't deal with their apparent volumes of history.

That's when he looks out the window and asks, "So where are we now, anyway?" and Zayn looks really embarrassed and tells him that they've passed his town and that they were already pulling out of the station by the time that he remembered that Harry would be the first of them to get off at all.

"But we're getting off next stop," Louis says, "and you can stay with us overnight and we can figure out how to get you home in the morning."

"Or, if you wanted to call someone," Zayn says, reaching up to run a hand through his quiff and then stopping abruptly, smoothing it back into place. "It's not too far of a drive, probably."

"Can't see why you'd want to miss out on our amazing company, though," Louis says, lightly, and Harry's face must fall because despite his nap he's still so _tired_ \- emotionally exhausted, really, from watching Zayn be so happy and date-y and in love with not-Harry for so long – and he just wants to be in his own bed with his mum stroking his hair and making him strong tea with too much sugar for a few days at _least_ , because Louis adds, "It's honestly fine, whatever you want; I'm house-sitting for a friend for the weekend so you wouldn’t have to deal with our families, but... we get it, if you'd rather call someone to collect you from the station."

Harry wants to cry. He wants to yell at Louis for being so nice and sweet and beautiful to him when all Harry wants to do is hate him. He wants to yell at Zayn for being so well-read with such intriguingly hidden tattoos and for being so interesting to talk to and for laughing every time Harry stumbles over the fucking palm trees outside of their cubicles, but in a way that invites Harry to laugh with him.

He wants nothing more than to go home and never see either of these men ever again. So of course when he opens his mouth to make his excuses, he ends up saying, "That sounds lovely, cheers, I appreciate it."

+++

Louis is fumbling with the key in the lock of the house in question and Zayn is leaning against the wall of the house and Harry is doing his best not to check him out too obviously when Louis says, "So, Zayn, have you decided whether or not you're going to initiate that one discussion we talked about?"

There is a universe out there somewhere, probably, where Harry doesn't attend to literally everything Zayn says or does. There's some kind of nice alternate world where Harry can get by in peace without being aware of absolutely every single one of Zayn's movements. He is so, so envious of that Harry, who can get through the day and see Zayn and not feel his stomach bottom out just looking at him and his _cheekbones_ and _eyes_ and _hands_ and not feel so fucking _magnetised_ by everything he does, because in this world, Harry is pretty sure he notices just about everything Zayn does. Such as now: Zayn shoots a murderous glare in Louis's direction before his face smoothes out and he turns to look uncertainly at Harry.

"So," says Zayn, biting at the corner of his lip anxiously. "You fancy me, yeah?"

And Harry's stomach really does fall somewhere next to his heart, which is on the floor between his feet. Swallowing rapidly to stave off the urge to vomit, Harry stares at Zayn in shock. Finally, he understands that one awful description he's slashed out in so many of the books he's edited, the one about blood running cold. He's never appreciated that specific phrase before – has always found it too trite and off-base – but now he identifies with it, _hard_. "Excuse me," he says, distantly, shoving his hand in his pocket to get his phone and thumbing through his contacts as he turns to walk away. He just –

He feels so _stupid_.

He's just about to dial his sister when there's a rush of footsteps behind him and Zayn's hand lands on his forearm. "Wait, Harry – I –"

"Yes?" Harry asks, clipped. "What is it?"

"Sorry," Zayn says, all in a rush. "Forget I said anything."

And Harry wants to, on some level; wants to forget the indignity and forgive Zayn, who looks so lovely with his cheeks all red from the cold and his hair beginning to slip free of the hold of his product and fall into his face. But the shock and anger at discovering that Zayn _knows_ about Harry's thing for him, that he's been _operating throughout the day with that knowledge_... "Sorry," Harry says. He's not generally the most confrontational of guys, but he's just so upset, so he adds, "I didn't think you were the type to poke fun."

"What?" Zayn asks, frowning.

But Harry is having none of that. "Even if my, uh, crush is totally obvious," he says. "I didn't think you would just, just take me out with you and your boyfriend for the day and like, _rub it in my face_ , Zayn, I-"

"I like you too," Zayn blurts, and, well. That shuts Harry up, his mouth closing so fast that he almost bites his tongue. "I – I'd hoped you felt the same."

" _Zayn_ ," Harry breathes, and then, remembering exactly where he is: "Louis is _right there_." 

"Had to meet the bloke Zayn couldn't stop fantasising about," Louis calls, from where he's still stood on the porch of the house. He's holding the front door open with his foot. "Are you two going to come in or not?"

Harry is hopelessly confused, but his insides are now practically fizzing with the possibilities. He just looks at Zayn, because he can't begin to articulate the questions he has.

Luckily, Zayn seems to understand. "Lou and I – we have a bit of an open relationship," he says, quietly. "Not – not that we go off with other people, not like that, but sometimes we bring people in."

"Wait," Harry says. "You mean -?"

"As I said," Louis says, letting the door swing closed and walking down the steps to the two of them. "I had to meet you."

"And?" Harry asks, dizzily.

Louis grins, wide and guileless. "Mate, I can honestly say I've never felt such a fast connection with anyone else ever before in my life, probably."

And yeah, Harry did instantly like Louis when he wasn't busy hating everything he stood for, but now that Louis no longer necessarily gets in the way of Harry's wildest dreams, Harry can step back and accept that he likes Louis as a person and give him a proper once-over.

And, well. Basically, he likes what he sees.

"So," Zayn says, interrupting Harry's reverie. "It's your call, Harry; we can forget this immediately if you want, or –"

"I don't," Harry blurts. "I don't want to forget this immediately."

He does want to know other things, like _is this a one-time thing?_ and _how exactly does this sort of thing work, anyway?_ but Zayn is stepping forward and drawing him into a deep kiss and it's more than he ever could have dreamed of before, so he lets the questions lie and falls into the slick press of Zayn's perfect lips against his own.

Distantly, he can feel Louis's hand cupping around the curve of his neck and then Louis's lips are grazing his cheek as he whispers to the two of them, "Let's move this inside, shall we?"

+++

Harry's always been good at focusing on the truly important things, so he starts stripping as soon as they close the front door.

Louis is blatantly staring. "Where did you find him?" he asks, Zayn, reverently. "He's got _brilliant_ priorities."

Zayn smirks. "Told you my job was interesting, too," he says, stepping forward, and Harry prepares to kiss him again, but he just grasps Harry's wrist and tugs him closer to Louis.

So Harry kisses Louis instead. His lips are drier than Zayn's, and more insistent, his hand falling to the small of Harry's back as he steps in closer and deepens the kiss, the rough denim of his jeans scraping against the front of Harry's legs. Zayn makes a small noise and moves in behind Harry, wrapping his arms against the two of them and sucking a kiss to Harry's neck.

After that, it's almost like a blur. Harry has always fancied himself as being level-headed about his sexuality, and about the girls and the guys that he goes home with after really productive club nights, and the occasional few that he's dated for a while. Tonight, though, he's drunk on getting what he's been wanting so badly for so very long and more, and he slots between Louis and Zayn that much easier.

It goes by in flashes: the breathtaking, mouthwatering sight of Zayn's cock thick and hard against his stomach, flushed a deep and dusky red and the skin of it so soft to the touch, the way it slots against Harry's own longer, narrower cock and Louis's, veiny and such a deep red that it's nearly purple. The taste of Louis as Harry runs his tongue around the head of his cock and pushes it under his foreskin, probing curiously, the way that he's a bit more bitter-tasting than Zayn is. The way that Zayn looks when he's blowing Louis, crouched between Louis's legs, cheeks hollowed with the effort, eyes closed and eyelashes brushing against his cheek (Louis, Harry discovers, also has long eyelashes and the enviable ability to jerk Harry off sloppily and kiss him, openmouthed and wet, when Zayn has his cock in his mouth).

The feeling of Louis opening up under his and Zayn's fingers, and then feeling Louis and Zayn's fingers opening _him_ up after, and the sharp quick jerks of Zayn's hips as he fucks into Harry, hard enough that Harry hardly has to move to thrust into Louis in turn.

Harry passes out soon after he comes, one hand tangled in Zayn's hair still, Louis's sweaty hand running through Harry's own curls sleepily and one of Zayn's hands wrapped possessively around Harry's upper thigh.

+++

He wakes up early, earlier than the other two. During the night they've shifted, so Zayn and Louis are wrapped tight around each other, almost uncomfortably so. It's a bittersweet sight – they're so beautiful together, beautiful and cute and so _very_ obviously meant for each other.

Harry sighs a little and disentangles himself – Louis's hand is now on Harry's waist and Harry's got an arm under Zayn's neck – before padding into the kitchen of this unfamiliar house and scrounging around the fridge. He's in this interesting place between sated and sad, and cooking has always been a good way for him to sort through his thoughts.

The options are basically eggs, beans, and bread, so he puts the bread on to toast and warms the beans up in a saucepan with some spices and heats up a frying pan for the eggs.

The thing is, he doesn't want to go back from this. 

The thing is, he has to.

He cooks the eggs over-easy, because there's no point to eating eggs and toast if you can't get your toast good and yolky, and he’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t realise how many eggs he’s cooked up until he reaches into the carton and discovers that he’s gone and used up all of them.

Louis comes stumbling out of the bedroom when he's sliding the second-to-last egg out onto a plate, frowning something awful, hair in a delicious disarray. He's peering hard – Harry vaguely remembers Louis saying something about taking his contacts out last night, and he's not wearing glasses now, so – well, that may be why – leaning from the hall through the living room door first.

"Hi," Harry says, quietly, after taking a split second to admire Louis's arse though the open kitchen door, and Louis jumps, his frown slowly softening into a smile.

"Was wondering where you'd got to," he says, walking heavy-footed, sleepy-footed into the kitchen.

"I wasn't," Harry starts, and then he sighs and tries again – "I didn't –"

"You should come back to bed," Louis says, moving behind Harry and wrapping his arms around Harry's waist, propping his chin on his shoulder.

"I – really?"

Louis nuzzles into Harry's neck. His mouth is cool and damp and so, so nice; his teeth are less so, but the bite is gentle and followed by a soft kiss. "Of course, silly."

"I thought that you'd want –" Harry begins, but he doesn't know how to tell Louis that he thought that it was a one-night only thing. Now he's not so sure.

"That we'd want breakfast?" Louis says, and Harry's only known him for a day but he feels like he knows him so well already, and he's getting the impression that Louis is being deliberately obtuse.

The rush of gratitude he feels laces his words. "Something like that."

"It's so early," Louis says. "But you're right, food is good. We can always sleep more later."

Harry has to get back home soon, celebrate Christmas with his family as planned, spend time with his parents and his sister and her boyfriend and Liam and Cher; they'll be wondering where he is by now. He's pretty sure Louis will have to leave with Zayn's friend Niall to get his car, soon. And then there's the big question of what will happen when they're back in London, which, Harry realises with a start, honestly may be more of a question now than he previously expected it to be.

But Louis heads off to wake Zayn ("Wish me luck, sweet Harold") and as Harry lifts plates down to serve up their breakfast, he can't help but hum a bit of a Christmas carol.

 _Later_. Harry rolls the word around in his mind as he takes the bread out of the toaster. Later sounds good, for sleep and for figuring everything out.

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays, snuffleslove! i hope that my attempt to do justice to these ships worked for you :)
> 
> [lj](http://el_em_en_oh_pee.livejournal.com) | [tumblr](http://dulosis.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] I NEED SOME MEANING I CAN MEMORISE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9090472) by [RsCreighton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton)




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